


Unsaid

by pocketwitch



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwitch/pseuds/pocketwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a porn battle hosted by <a href="http://femslash-today.livejournal.com">femslash-today</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a porn battle hosted by [femslash-today](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com).

There is a lot unsaid between them. Likely there always will be. Much is unsaid simply because the words would be superfluous and neither woman has ever been particularly interested in wasting time.

Laura doesn’t have to tell Kara how much she loves to be teased; that’s a fact spoken plainly by her moans whenever Kara responds to her begging with a far too gleeful negative.

Kara doesn’t have to tell Laura how much she loves licking her; that’s a fact spoken plainly by the pure bliss she exhibits whenever she’s burrowed between Laura’s legs.

Laura doesn’t have to tell Kara how much she adores giving up her control any more than Kara has to tell Laura how much she adores wielding it.

There are smaller things as well, details that don’t merit speech but don’t escape notice.

Laura loves seeing Kara in her tanks; runs her hands lightly along Kara’s breasts, gently coaxing her nipples to hardness, occasionally suckling them through the fabric.

Kara loves seeing Laura in high heels; can’t resist eying her legs no matter how inappropriate the setting, sometimes waits until the last possible minute to remove them, running her tongue along the tops of Laura’s feet through her stockings.

Lately, however, it has seemed that the heels are a thing of the past. New Caprica isn’t the sort of setting where one dresses for formality’s sake, and Laura is no longer in a position that requires such impracticalities.

Kara hasn’t mentioned it; would never consider mentioning it. What would there be to say? It isn’t as though it makes much of a difference – power suits or sweaters, high heels or sensible shoes, President or schoolteacher - her eager lover has only grown more compelling with every change she’s manifested. Trappings are trappings; eventually they will all be nothing more than a heap on the floor and the soft skin beneath will be equally responsive no matter whether the heap is a crumpled suit or a crumpled sweater.

Kara would never consider mentioning it, but Kara doesn’t have to. There is a lot unsaid between them. There is also a lot understood.

The night is warmer than most and Kara doesn’t announce herself before ducking into Laura’s tent. Inside the light is soft; several flickering candles tossing shadows across the canvas walls, across the homey arrangement of Laura’s belongings, across Laura herself, stretched out on her stomach on her cot, one knee bent, one foot pointing toward the ceiling.

A shadow dances against the dip of her back, the curve of her shoulder, and she is wearing nothing; nothing but a pair of black high heels.

As Kara approaches Laura looks over her shoulder, grins.

“I thought you might appreciate – “

Whatever remains of her statement is lost in Kara’s mouth as Kara swiftly climbs onto the cot, her hand on Laura’s shoulder firm, rolling her onto her back, stealing her words her breath her train of thought with the greed of the kiss.

When she finally allows the need for air to prevail and releases Laura’s mouth she sits back on her heels, runs her hands down Laura’s thighs, pulling Laura’s legs up at the knees, setting Laura’s heels at her sides. Her fingers trail along Laura’s calves now, behind the knee to ankle and back, her eyes following one set of fingers and then the other.

“I do appreciate. I appreciate very much.”

Kara begins to edge further down the cot and Laura stops her, one hand reaching out to catch her arm.

“Not yet. Me first.”

Her smile is predatory and Kara knows that there is no arguing with her; Laura can no more be persuaded now than Kara can be persuaded when all she wants is to see that look in Laura’s eyes; the wild, frak-it-all look she only gets when she’s so far beyond begging she can barely remember how to say “please.”

Laura cannot be dissuaded and Kara, truth be told, feels no inclination to press the issue, and so when Laura tells her to strip she does just that.

She strips, sits back on the cot, and Laura moves to make room for Kara to lie down, then promptly crawls atop her, gasps at the feel of Kara’s bare skin pressed to hers.

More kissing and Laura setting the pace now, and her pace starts slowly, tender pecks at the corner of Kara’s mouth, her tongue only darting out for brief, teasing laps.

By the time the kisses deepen she is pushing her hips against Kara’s, the fingers of one hand trailing along Kara’s thigh, and when she sits up those fingers press between Kara’s legs, her intentions clear.

There is still a wariness in Kara’s eyes; perhaps there always will be when Laura fraks her, perhaps nothing will ever fully appease the ghosts that Laura stirs with her hands and her mouth. There is a wariness but there is a stronger desire. Her knees raise, her hips push toward the touch.

Laura’s fingers start as slowly as her kisses, barely brushing Kara’s lips at first, warming her gradually to the touch, coaxing low moans before venturing inside.

Once she is inside it isn’t long before Kara is thrusting against her hand, gritting her teeth, shuddering with every circle Laura’s thumb makes around her clit. Her breath is harsh, her muscles tense, and Laura is not as experienced at this as Kara is, isn’t such an expert at attack-and-retreat, but Laura knows the edge when she sees it.

And when Kara is at the edge, Laura stops.

No gradual slowing, no easing off; she stops, pulls her hand away, and Kara cries out, sits up, brain fighting through the haze of almostalmostalmost to try and make sense of Laura’s expression.

Which is decidedly wicked.

“Not yet. Me first.” Her voice is a deep purr as she leans forward, swipes her tongue along Kara’s lips. “But if you want to take your time, be my guest.”

It is a challenge, and Laura knows that Kara cannot resist a challenge. Laura knows that she is setting herself up; knows it and does it anyway. Laura does not have to tell Kara that she loves to be teased. Laura also does not have to tell Kara that sometimes she enjoys retribution.

It is a long, long time before Laura comes.

By the time Laura comes they are both slick with sweat, sliding against each other with trembling urgency, unable to distinguish whose breath is whose. By the time Laura comes her high heels have been discarded, purposefully or not she can’t quite remember. By the time Laura comes Kara’s hands and face are covered in her, glistening and sticky and hot. By the time Laura comes she has gone from begging to cursing and back, pleading more plaintively before degenerating into a fugue of wordless moaning, desperate clutching. By the time Laura comes she imagines that the single-minded madness in Kara’s eyes mirrors her own, almost wonders if Kara will break before she does; almost wonders, knows better.

When Laura comes the effort of keeping her roar caged in her throat makes the world go black at the edges. When Laura comes her nails digging into Kara’s shoulders stop just short of drawing blood. When Laura comes it is a miracle that the cot holds up under her thrashing. When Laura comes she comes for a long, long time.

And then she collapses. And this would normally be when Kara takes the time to admire her work, a woman held at the edge, held and held and held and then pushed, a woman so thoroughly disheveled and undone, a woman so radiant to begin with, now soaking and heaving and shattered; a work of art.

Tonight Kara’s appreciation for her accomplishment doesn’t merit such patience. Tonight she gives Laura no time for recovery.

“Now.” Kara’s voice is a strained hiss. “Or I swear to the gods next time I’ll leave you like that.”

Laura swallows, knows truth in Kara’s voice, shakes her head to bring her mind back to something resembling focus, slides herself downward even as she grips Kara’s thighs, urging Kara toward her.

Laura’s tongue is not as practiced as Kara’s; what it is is shamelessly enthusiastic. She devours Kara with growling relish, barely noticing Kara’s fingers tangling in her hair, Kara’s hips grinding roughly against her. Her lips are snug on Kara’s clit and it takes so little before Kara’s tension uncoils in a sharp, brilliant burst that leaves her shaking, barely managing to slide her hips flush with Laura’s before she wilts at Laura’s side, her head against Laura’s shoulder.

There is a lot unsaid between them. Very little is spoken for the remainder of Kara’s stay; very little is spoken, but Kara’s fingertips against Laura’s hip communicate as profoundly as Laura’s palm against Kara’s back, spread flatly, pressing Kara to her. Pressing Kara close.


End file.
